


Drinking Tears

by Bayyvon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Silence of The Lambs!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 10:15:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20673731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bayyvon/pseuds/Bayyvon
Summary: “Loki has been here nine years, Miss Lewis. In those nine years, I’ve seen more qualified agents than you try and interview him and come out with their tails between their legs. Why read a book twice if you know how it ends?”





	Drinking Tears

2012

QUANTICO, VA. 

The sound of leather hitting leather fills the air, accompanied by the grunts of students as they sparred in tandem. The sharp smell of sweat is strong enough to make her eyes water, but Darcy remains focused, feet planted firmly as she dodges a swing. Fist curled tightly inside the large glove, the trainee winds back her fist to make a jab at the petite woman before her. 

“Lewis!”

Darcy turns mid-swing and ends up being knocked backward full force by her opponent. She loses all breath as she lands flat, sprawled out across the mat and staring into the face of her roommate Jane, and her instructor Bucky Barnes. The sarg hauls her upwards, and gives her a quick once over before she’s sent towards the man who had called her name. Darcy had seen him before, a wordless pass in the hallway or leaving a lecture, but never much else. He’s much older and at least a head taller than her with a tanned, angular face framed by dark hair and a well manicured goatee. He says nothing else to her, simply leads the way through the winding halls of the academy and occasionally glances behind him to reassure that she was still trailing behind. As they descend down the steps towards the behavioral science wing Darcy feels a slight drop in temperature, causing her to become self conscious of the sweat ring that had haloed from her collar to her navel. The man she followed suddenly diverts his attention from the thick, overflowing file he had clutched between his hands to turn on his heel and address her. 

“Fury’s office. Down the hall, last door on the right.”

He branches off into an office adorned with a plaque that reads: 

“_Stark, T. _

_Dir. SHIELD_”

She follows her instruction, and comes upon Nick Fury’s office. The door is open, and the man in question sits behind his desk, hands steepled against his lips as his remaining eye scanned the paperwork that engulfed his desk. Darcy knocks quietly against the solid frame, and Fury raises his brows at her. 

“Lewis, come in. Sit, please.”

When Darcy crosses the threshold of the doorway her eyes are drawn to the artifacts tacked to the wall adjacent to Nick’s desk. Headlines exclaim murder, the mention of The Frost Giant, and various victims pre and postmortem. She feels her gut twist unpleasantly when she realizes that most of them are women, not much older than herself.

“Yes, Sir?” She prompts as she perches in the chair opposite her super, trying not to let her eyes wander back to the expansive wall of evidence.

“I’ve got a small task for you, Lewis. If you’re up for it.”

“Of course.” The dark haired woman’s curiosity had been piqued, and she felt eager that she was the one to have been selected by Fury to carry this out. 

“I need an interview conducted for a study on the psychological wear on long term apprehended criminals.” Nick measures her with a hard crease on either side of his lips, brows raised and waiting.

“Absolutely.” Lewis nearly buzzes in her seat. She presses on, tucking sweat dampened hair behind her ear. “Who’s the subject, Sir?”

“The phsychiatrist, Loki Odinson.”

A deafening silence falls over the pair as she digests his words. Her knuckles ache where she involuntarily clenches them at her sides.

“The Silvertongue Killer.”

It comes out in a whisper, filling the air between them with the tension that his name had carried with it, even after all these years. 

“The very same.” Nick nods, and pushes back in his chair to riffle through the stack of files tucked away in a drawer.

Her words tumble out before she considers the weight behind them. “Could this have something to do with The Frost Giant killings?”

The dark skinned man pauses, a case file halfway extended across his desk, and he sighs heavily. He drops the folder before her, and tiredly pinches the bridge of his nose. Leaning back in his chair, eyes cast toward the popcorn ceiling, he says: “I wish it did, Lewis. I really wish it did.”

Darcy gathers up the paperwork and tucks it safely against her chest. “When will I be going, Director?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

————————

“So, what did Stark want with you?” Jane asks as they settle into their usual spots in the dinning hall.

“Wasn’t Stark.” Darcy says, tucking thankfully into her burger. “Fury.” She wipes stray condiments from the sides of her mouth with the back of her hand and swallows loudly. 

The petite woman’s eyes nearly bug from her head. “No way, did you get some kind of assignment?”

“I get to do an eval out at Fensalir Medical.”

If Jane had been a cartoon character, Darcy thinks she would have been picking her unhinged jaw up off the floor. Such as it is, she gapes widely and leans in closer to the behavioral science major, whispering almost hysterically: “Fensalir? Holy _shit_, Darc!”

Pulling wild brown curls away from her face, the younger woman nods. She cracks a smile over her glasses at the forensic science hopeful. “Yeah, I know.”

“That’s all the way in New York!”

“Mhm,” Darcy nods again, shrugging off her shoulder bag. She thinks about the Manila envelope settling heavy and safe at the bottom, beneath her gym clothes. She glances around the room to see a few heads craned towards them. “Can we talk about this later, Jane? This burger is calling my name.”

If Jane hadn’t been suspicious before, the pointed look thrown the younger agent’s way was more than indicative of her thought process. But Darcy simply waved it off and asked about Jane’s day.

“Barnes rode my ass since _someone_ had to go downstairs and leave me without a partner.”

“Ooooh, fun.” The dark haired woman wiggles thick brows suggestively.

“Not as fun as it sounds. Said my size works against me. I told him I wouldn’t need this, since I want forensics, and he did that thing he does—“

“The flippy leg thing.”

“Mhm. Knocked me on my ass said ‘Don’t let your opponent distract you, Foster.’” The trainee pitches low, brows drawn together and frowning deep to imitate the man who stood a few yards away, scanning the room with crossed arms. 

“Like _you_ would ever let James Barnes _distract_ you.”

She earns herself a smack on the arm for that. 

————————

“You’re kidding.” Jane says as she towels off her hair. 

“I’m not.” Darcy is trying to make sense of all the information before her. She tries to start at the beginning, but there doesn’t seem to _be_ one.

“Sounds like a load of bullshit to me, D. Loki’s been locked up for years, why would they suddenly need to use him for a study?”

The brunette makes a note in her journal. “I’ve been asking myself that all day, Janey.”

The forensic scientist sighs and pats her friend on the shoulder. “Get some sleep,”

————————

The wrought iron gates of Fensalir Medical Hospital for the Criminally Insane stand tall and proud, unyielding in their two hundred years of service to New York City. They stare at Darcy’s worn down vehicle that well surpassed her own age with their swirling eyes and pass silent judgement against her. After signaling her arrival with the buzzer, the gates swing open and allow entry before sealing her here indeterminately. Fury’s voice rings clear in her head as she gathers her briefcase and identification. _No pleasantries. No personal information. This man will find a way inside your head and use it against you. You must become detached, Lewis._

A tall, dark skinned man greets her at the door. Introduces himself as Heimdall. Says he’ll have his eye on her while she goes about her business. Advises her to be kind. Smiles warmly at her. 

Darcy decides she trusts him. 

However, upon meeting the medical director she is a bit more skeptical of the Fensalir staff. He bears a long face, a deep set frown and dark beady eyes that roam Darcy’s figure liberally. The plaque on his desk says _Andrew Lestrade _followed by his various degrees and Darcy briefly considers using it to hit him over the head with. 

But if she wants this to go well, she has to restrain herself. 

“We have Loki in an isolated cell, away from the other patients. He’s been known to cause issues.” Lestrade explains as he leads Darcy down a few flights of stairs. 

“Issues, sir?”

He stops so abruptly Darcy nearly collides into his back. He digs around in his pocket and produces a photo. 

“This is what happens when Loki is left to his own devices,”

The woman inside stares back at her with one eye and an unhinged jaw, muscle dangling from large bite shaped lacerations and Darcy fights back vomit. 

And just as quickly the photo disappears back into the lapels of the director’s jacket and he continues on without her. 

After an uncomfortable stretch, Heimdall greets them with a kind smile at the bottom of the stairs and Lestrade begins to walk away. 

“Doctor, are you not going to be joining us?”

“Loki has been here nine years, Miss Lewis. In those nine years, I’ve seen more qualified agents than you try and interview him and come out with their tails between their legs. Why read a book twice if you know how it ends?”

As soon as she could no longer hear the click of his unnaturally clean shoes, she feels her shoulders sag in relief as she mutters “_Dick_” beneath her breath. 

“You’ll do fine.” Heimdall places a large, reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Remember what I said.”

The words flicker at the forefront of Darcy’s mind, in sharp gold leaf cursive. 

_“Kindness is essential here,”_

Before she can consider it harder, a buzzer sounds overhead, and the large metal cell slides open. Clutching her paperwork to her side, she crosses the threshold and is hit with a cool rush of air. 

Heimdall’s voice suddenly crackles through an ancient PA, and it makes her jump. 

“Stay to the right, Miss.”

A row of cells lies on her left, and a concrete wall to her right. The inmates oogle her, whistling and growling, some making unsettling remarks. One sticks their arm between the bars and tries to lure Darcy closer with some kind of dance of his fingers. When she steps closer to the wall, the inmate barks.

_“Scared, girly?”_

Another inmate cackles maniacally, hissing through his teeth._ “Sure smells like it.”_

_“C’mere, sweetheart,”_

_ **“Enough.”** _

A sharp voice cuts through the air, and Darcy shivers.

As she nears the end of the hallway, she spies a chair situated in front of one of the cells. The last one, layers of bulletproof plexiglass and concrete coming together to separate herself from the Silvertongue Killer. 

He's turned away from her, hands linked near the small of his back. He stands tall, with dark hair that fans across his shoulders. The emerald of his uniform is a sharp contrast to the cream color of his skin, and Darcy finds herself nervous. 

_He’s just a person, Darc._

A voice that sounds far too much like Jane’s taunts her back. _If by person you mean serial murderer..._

“Doctor Odinson.” She speaks firmly, trying to mask the waiver that threatens to dismantle her whole demeanor. “My name is Darcy Lewis, I’m with the FBI’s behavioral science unit. Could I have a moment of your time?”

“As long as you’re not going to waste it...” The doctor sighs, turning his head a fraction of an inch. Darcy can see the hard line of his jaw and the sharp end of his nose. His lips are pulled into a cutting frown. He turns to view her fully, green eyes darkening as he drinks in her form. He looks younger than she had thought he would. He absently wets his lips as they curl into a smirk. “Please," he purrs, the single syllable running down Darcy’s spine like honey. He extends his hand and gestures towards the little metal folding chair. “Sit.”

Darcy begins to riffle through her briefcase, the scratch of the paperwork inside making the now eerily quiet basement much more unsettling in its lack of life. “Doctor Odinson—“

“Loki, if you please. May I?” When his hand curls shut and comes up quickly to tug on the front of his shirt, his stitched on nametag fluttering back and forth. She realizes then that he wants to see her badge.

“Loki,” Darcy corrects herself, producing her identification and flashing it to him through the glass.

“Closer, and once more, Miss Lewis.” He wets his lips again as she steps closer to the glass. She holds it out before her, unable to hide the way her fingers tremble. “That expires soon. And you’ve just acquired it today. You’re not real FBI, are you?”

“I’m still studying, sir.” Darcy confirms, startling when Loki throws his head back and let’s out a loud laugh. The pale column of his neck is exposed to her, covered in small knick-like scars. Darcy’s stomach clenches when she realizes they’re nail gouges. 

_"Claire Persh was found dead with a broken neck and missing her tongue in the woods near Jay County Creek. The blood and chunks of flesh beneath her broken fingernails were what finally convicted Doctor Odinson."_ Janes voice echos back to her. 

“Pardon me, Darcy.” He pauses long enough to flicker his tongue across his lower lip. It made Darcy think of rattlesnakes. “May I call you Darcy?” And she can nearly see the fangs, squared off canines where they may have been once. Her brain tries to imagine his teeth in what used to be their full glory. It all feels too cartoon-villain caricature until she realizes their more.... _practical_ uses. It makes her baby hairs stand at attention, sending needles of panic down her spine. 

Darcy straightens her back and smiles. “You may.”

“That was a lie, you know.” The doctor before her measures her. He’d caught her oogling his teeth like a child with their fingers in the mouth of a Doberman. “My teeth.” Loki gnashes them together, pulling his lips back into a snarl that Darcy is sure wasn’t something many saw and lived. “A false claim by the tabloids to make me seem more v—“

“Villainous.” 

The student and the rattlesnake meet eyes. An understanding passes between them, and Darcy feels considerably more relaxed than she had anticipated ever being in the presence of the man who had ripped others’ tongues from their mouths, their muscle from bone only to feed them to guests none the wiser. And yet here she sat only a few feet away, feeling like a pet store songbird watching mice disappear between the bars. Safe, for now. But never certain.


End file.
